Non Sequitur
by vinnni
Summary: It just makes no goddamn sense that when one guy asks you for a simple favor, there's suddenly idiots flying in from Canada and England and the blitzing seventh layer of Hell to figure out just what the hell to do with Kenny McCormick.


A/N.

Sup, fandom. Have a Short First Chapter of a First Story Ever. I have no clue where this is going, but there might be Crenny, or Stenny, or Ksquared, or Staig, or Creek, or idefk. I watched Brokeback Mountain a couple days ago and then found myself yearning for some redneck accents and cowboy sex. But knowing me this will end up completely innocent.

Also there's swearing, but has that ever stopped us before?

* * *

I decided around Exit 72B of the interstate that I was in no condition to be driving.

I was especially in no condition to be driving a beat-up rusty pickup with screaming brakes that grated on my frayed nerves and broken shocks that actually amplified every bump of the shitty unpaved road and pushed me one gag reflex closer to puking on the dashboard.

I mean, shit. There was the nausea, of course, but I blamed myself for that one, since I'd had about four hundred eighty-nine drinks the night before with Clyde and his bitchslutwhore of a girlfriend, and I guess that means the headache was my fault, too, so fuck me, it's all my fault, go ahead and sue for everything I don't have.

But even if the nausea was there, it'd still have been okay, except I was also exhausted from not sleeping and then driving for like eight hours that day, since like six in the morning (no unemployed man should be forced to wake up before nine AM, and that unemployed man is me), and running on the assloads of coffee that hit my bladder when I was forty miles from rest stops in both directions because this cunt lives in the middle of blitzing nowhere.

…well, Kenny's not a cunt. He's a fucking asshat and I hate him, though. But he's alright. Douchebag.

Anyway, because Kenny McCormick the Semi-Cunt is an asshat and lives in the middle of blitzing nowhere, I was lost. And I had to piss, too. Like I said. And every bump of Stan Marsh's fucking rusty-ass pickup was not only pushing the contents of my stomach up my esophagus but encouraging all that piss to make a bid for freedom.

I swear, it's barely worth borrowing the kid's car. And it can't even be called a car. Token, man, he has real cars, but of course he doesn't let me drive them when I'm drunk, so he basically never lets me drive them, so I had to rely on Stan Marsh's rusty-ass pickup.

So I was lost. And at first I was like, oh, well I can call Kenny then, that asshat can figure this out, but I dunno, call me a dramatic faggot or something, but you don't just call someone right before seeing them for the first time in I don't even know how fucking long. Like, in movies, that's just not how it goes. It'd be like, I call this asshat, and it'd be like "Ken. Dude. Where the fuck is your place." "Oh, make a left at the third peony on the right." (I don't fucking know. I was hung over and lost and for all I knew that was what I wasn't seeing, a whole fucking bed of peonies, and I'd have had to get out of my car and check them at the stems to see which one's the third on the right, because flowers are cunts and can't grow in nice neat lines, they're in this whole fucking mess and you have to check them at the stems and have a ruler or some shit to make sure you have it right and then you make your left and smash into a tree cause you counted wrong cause you can't even count to three.) "Alright, I crashed into a tree." "Dammit. Well I'll meet you at the hospital."

And this whole two-person reunion thing, or whatever, it'd happen in a hospital with a bunch of nurses watching and Stan sitting there crying like an emofag cause I'm dead and Ken'd come in all "Oh, I guess that phone call was it. Damn, now I'll never get to tell him whatever the hell it was that I had to tell him, that was so important I had to send him a letter, a fucking _letter_, nobody sends letters, telling him to come out to the middle of blitzing nowhere so I could tell him this shit face-to-face, and of course he'd come, not even call back or anything, just show up one day, because Craig's a faggot and thinks that calling would ruin it. But yeah, I guess I won't be able to tell him. Hey Stan, lemme tell you since I didn't tell Craig."

That's how shit would have played out. I dunno. I was drunk. Tweek rubbed off on me. Spaz.

So I couldn't call Kenny, because I'd end up dead (or at least ruin the suspense), and I couldn't call Stan, because he thought I borrowed his rusty-ass pickup to visit my folks and I couldn't be like "Hey dick, me and your rusty-ass pickup are making a detour in the opposite direction, can you MapQuest Kenny McCormick's house?" and he'd get all pissy because he'd be all, what the hell, you're gonna go screw my second best friend, ass, I'm gonna tell my rusty-ass pickup to kill you, and then the pickup would like, become electromagnetic and implode and crush me.

What the fuck, Tweek. Get your paranoid ravings out of my head.

Anyway, I ended up calling Kyle, which was awkward cause he was like "Craig who?" a couple times, but I still have his number cause I dunno, I've had the same phone with the same contacts since middle school and I guess he hasn't changed his number either. I ended up having to recount Peru. I fucking hate thinking about that. And then Kyle was all "Oh. Dick. What d'you want?"

I kind of hate Kyle.

"Uh, I need you to check something for me. I'm lost."

"…what. Call one of your asshole friends."

"Clyde's drunk and Tweek's crazy and Token's all Mr. Responsibility and Stan – …and Token's all Mr. Responsibility."

And he was quiet on the other end of the line for a second, and then he made this weird breathy sound and I thought _what a pussy_ but I guess it'd be like that for me if it was like, Tweek or something, but whatever. So he made this weird breathy sound and then he was all "Fine, what."

I was kind of feeling like a dick now, cause next I had to ask, "D'you know Kenny McCormick's address?" even though I sorta knew he didn't know so I guess I was being cunty on purpose, but whatever, I kind of hate Kyle.

"No." He shut up; guess he didn't want to know if I was going there, but he did, he's a smart guy so of course he knew. And this next part was douchey beyond douchey, so fine, I'm evil, whatever.

"Eric might know? Maybe?"

Kyle was doing that breathy thing again, and the line was quiet a bit more but I could hear him talking in the background, and then he came back and was like, turn left at the third peony, or something, I don't really remember what he said, but I did remember it then, and besides, Kenny doesn't want people knowing where he lives.

And then Kyle hung up on me, and I was like, dick, and then I drove around a bit more until I found this asshat's little shack. But like, I dunno, I'm calling it a shack but I don't do much better, and that's with like two hundred seventeen other people living there, so I'm a dick.

So I got out of Stan's rusty-ass pickup and brushed dog hair from those stupid seats off my ass, and I didn't have to piss any more but the nausea was hitting me full-force, and I walked up to the broken screen door and knocked on plastic siding and rocked on my heels and waited for the eternity between 2:18:32 PM and 2:18:46 PM and then the door opened and suddenly Kenny was there, all graham-cracker hair and teeth almost as crooked as mine and his arms spread open like "welcome to my humble doorstep" and I felt like I should say yo but my tongue fused with the roof of my mouth and he beat me to it anyway, in that Southern drawl that I didn't even remember him having.

"Craig fuckin' Tucker."


End file.
